It was the famous bronze statue of Romulus and Remus being suckled by a wolf, given to the city by some citizens of Rome in honor of the fact that Cincinnati, too, was built on seven green hills above a river. The pretty part was there, in the background. The blue, leaf-strewn ponds. The low stone wall looking out on the Ohio. The Japanese bridge that arcs over the reflecting pool. But it was all thrown out of kilter by the statue, which like the moody coloring of her animals, seemed to float through the sketch like a theme, as if this, too, were another beast fable.
“The rest is miscellaneous stuff,” Aamons said. “Snapshots. Figure studies. Things that caught her eye.”
He showed me line drawings of arms, hands, legs. No faces. Then he turned to one that made my blood run cold.
“Hold it!” I said and slapped my hand on the page.
Aamons looked startled. “What?” he said nervously.
For a moment I couldn't say anything. I didn't have the breath. It's just a forearm, Harry, I said to myself. Just a man's forearm. Propped, it seemed on a table top beside an open book. Probably on one of the library table tops on the second floor where she'd been sketching one fall afternoon two years before. And, of course, what had caught her eye, that fine eye attuned to the wild and the tame, was what was pictured on the arm. It was what had stopped me, too, and sent me hurtling back one hour in time, to Benson Howell's sanitized office. On the forearm, just as Howell’d said there might be, was a tattoo of a fanged cobra, twisted murderously about a woman's naked body, with the slogan “Evil” printed beneath it, as if it were an emblem in an emblem book. It was almost too good to be true.
“My God,” I said.
And Aamons said, “For crying out loud, what's going on?”
I looked up at him. “This could be him. This could be the Ripper.”
He looked bewildered. “You mean the man who killed Twyla?”
I nodded. “She couldn't have known it,” I said, half to myself, in a voice that was probably as stunned sounding as Aamons' own. Then I started to get excited. The detective in me took over and began looking ahead, planning it out. “I'll need this drawing, Mr. Aamons.”
“Sure,” he said.
“I'll get the police to make copies of it and we'll see if they've got anyone on file with this tattoo on his arm. Then I can check the people on the list.”
“What list?” he said in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“It's too complicated to explain. Let's just say that you've probably given me the next best thing to a photograph of Twyla's killer. And I'm going to nail him with it before he gets the chance to cut up anyone else.”
“I did that?” he said with pleasure.
“You and Twyla,” I said. “She didn't know it, but she drew his picture for us. Probably in the very place where he'd first seen her and first thought of killing her.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Lon Aamons said. “What a piece of justice.”
I took a deep, satisfied breath and said, “Yeah.”
11
IT WAS close to one o'clock when I nosed onto the expressway at Taft and headed down the Mt. Adams hillside, past the Baldwin warehouse, to town. An hour or so before, I'd been ready to quit the case or to turn it over to the D.A.'s staff. Now I felt as if there weren't enough hours left in the day to do the job I had to do. And not just had to do, but wanted to do. After hearing about the girl, after hearing the affection in that old man's voice and seeing the touching legacy she'd left behind her, some part of me, almost as old and hardbitten as the Ripper himself, was determined that there weren't going to be any more Twyla Beltons on this case. No more sacrifices to someone's stunted sense of his own importance. Because once you'd demystified him, once you'd gotten over the thrill of horror that freezes you when you come in contact with someone terrible, you see what he's left behind him for what it is—the savaged books and the torn-up girl and those sad, sensitive drawings. And weighing them all in the same balance, you start to see that the Ripper, or anyone like him, just doesn't deserve the tribute that a slightly crazy man always pays a truly crazy one. He'd gotten his measure of pity and fear out of me. Now it was the girl's turn.
I had two stops to make before returning to the library and the first was simple enough. I got off Reading at Central Parkway, drove north through the blue afternoon haze to Station X, parked in the Music Hall lot, and with the sketch tucked under my arm, walked across Ezzard Charles to the police building and Al Foster's tiny office.
He lit a fresh cigarette when I showed him the sketch and almost cracked a smile.
“I knew I could count on that heart of yours, Harry,” he said. He tapped the drawing with his forefinger. “You sure that's him?”
“It would be a pretty weird coincidence if it wasn't. The tattoo fits the description I got from the court psychiatrist, and the drawing was made about the time of the murder. I figure she must have spotted him in the library. What happened after that is speculation.”
“You'd make a great witness,” Al said.
I laughed. “Then try this out. She was a romantic girl with more imagination than experience. When you add loneliness to that combination and a native sympathy for wild animals, you might get someone who would go up to the Overlook with a slightly off-beat stranger, who had a tattoo on his arm like a badge of his own wild nature.”
“All right,” he said. “I don't know about the scenario. Maybe he just followed her up there. Maybe there wasn't any contact between them at all—I mean, beyond the drawing and the murder itself. That doesn't matter. If this is him, I want him. And I don't care if DeVries and the D.A.'s office goes for it or not.” Foster crushed out a smoldering butt with his thumb and said, “I saw that kid's body, Harry. And I'm telling you I want this guy. So I'm going to run this sketch for you. This afternoon. And if we come up with anybody on file with this sort of tattoo on his arm, I'll let you know as soon as possible. You'll be at the library?”
I said, yes.
“One thing, though,” Foster said. “If we do get a make on this guy, don't go handling it on your own. You can case him, all right. I'll even deputize you. But when it comes time for a bust, you call me. Understand? If worse comes to worst, I can get a John Doe warrant and pull him in for vagrancy.”
“I'm no hero, Al,” I said.
He didn't say anything.
******
I drove across town to the Court House, which was stop two, and found George DeVries staring out the window again in his second-floor office.
‘They really keep you busy, don't they, George?” I said from the doorway.
He turned slowly around in his chair. I could see from the disappointed look on his face that he'd already had his little talk with Walker Parsons and that it hadn't gone the way he'd wanted it to. He tried to explain it to me, in that sour, mechanical tone of voice that hired hands generally adopt when they don't see eye-to-eye with their bosses.
“Wally's got an election coming up,” he said and bit his lip. “He thinks the timing's wrong on this thing, and he wants to wait until the end of the month to break it to the papers. You see he's got a close one this time, what with the boy Jackson giving him such a hard time in the second district. And this kind of case could send him right over the top. If the timing's right.” He made an embarrassed face and sat back in his chair. “I'm sorry as hell, Harry. He's willing to make you a special deputy, if that's any consolation. And if you had a name, he says it might be different.
“Aw, hell,” George said. “Let's face it. Walker hasn't got the guts of an egg-suck dog. If he did, he wouldn't be prosecuting the porno-peddlers all the time and letting the really big-time crooks go scot free. But he does know how to get himself reelected. And come October, that's all he's got on his mind. I'm sorry, Harry, but there's not a thing I can do on my own.”
I told him not to worry about it—that I might have a name for him in a couple of days.
“Yeah?” he said eagerly. ‘That could make a differen
ce.”
Only I wasn't so sure. Walker was perfectly capable of sitting on an indictment for a month and letting the Hyde Park Ripper wander around the streets until he needed him to cash in at the polls. As I walked back down the stairway to the lobby, I decided to stick with Al Foster and the P.D., if I did make my man. They would get him off the streets, all right. Maybe permanently, Harry, I said to myself. And wasn't so sure I cared about that, either.
******
I'd run my errands and it was time to return home. Past time, really. It was almost three-thirty by my watch. Which meant that Kate Davis was probably wondering if I'd decided to renege on our partnership again. She didn't have a slow fuse, Kate. Or a constant faith in male detectives with ingrown parental tapes or whatever-the-hell it was I was supposed to be suffering from. She might just have taken it upon herself to investigate that list on her own. Not a good idea, if she happened on the right name. What I should have done, I thought, was call. And then I laughed at myself for turning so domestic on the basis of a single kiss. Only when I started thinking about that kiss and about her pert face and lush figure and that mop of curls that felt like crushed velvet to the touch, I began to wonder why I'd stopped at one.
Ingrown parental tapes, Harry? Or just a bit of old-fashioned anxiety. A touch of fear before the plunge. Before committing yourself one more time, steadfast as the good soldier, to love. The enormous exercise of love. The obligation, the duty of love. Fairly pleasant duty, though. I thought again about Kate Davis's pretty, sportive face, about the slender curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts, and pushed down on the accelerator.
She was a little peeved, all right, when I walked through the library doors at four. But when I told her all I'd learned about Twyla and the Ripper, patiently and in complete detail so she'd get the point that I was still her faithful partner, she seemed pleased. She seemed pleased with the way I was looking at her, too. Pleased and a little flustered, like a teenage girl before her first date. That afternoon, as we sat across from one another at one of the varnished oak library tables, was a fresh start. And both of us knew what we were starting. She ducked her head and straightened her glasses on her nose and grinned at me, with her hand to her forehead and those blue eyes wide with excitement. And I grinned back at her with the sort of wonder that I always feel when I realize that the girl sitting across from me, the girl with whom I'm about to share not only a bed but a history—a portion of my life and my past—has a life and a past of her own. I imagine that people who have lived together for decades must feel it, too. Must look up, now and then, and see a stranger sitting across from them—another person who will never quite fit the history that the two of them have created together. I suppose if you ever lose that sense of mystery—because that's what it is, folks—the relationship dies. I didn't know how long she'd stay interested in me, but I had the feeling that even a detective could spend a long while finding Kate Davis out.
I think we might have held hands across the tabletop, if Ringold hadn't ambled up with his famous list.
“Here it is,” he said, eyeing us suspiciously. “Kate and Jessie have culled it thoroughly and they've come up with four possible male suspects and six female...what shall I say? Victims?” He slapped the list on the table between us like a gavel. “I did what you asked and called the police. I've also contacted the other branches about the possible mutilation of their art books. Now what have you got to report to me?”
“Good news,” I said. “I think we've got a description of the Ripper.”
I thought he might swoon. He rocked on his heels and his eyes got very large; then he broke into a big, sheepish grin.
“That is good news,” he said with genuine cheer. “My gosh, how did you do it?”
“A little detective work,” I said and winked at Kate. “And some very good luck. Twyla Belton was not only an art student, she was a very good artist. And she may have left one sketch of the Ripper behind her.”
“What does he look like?” he said curiously.
“I don't know.”
Ringold made a confused face, as if he weren't quite sure I wasn't twitting him again.
“What I've got, Leon,” I said. “Is a sketch of a tattoo on the Ripper's forearm. But if it is him, it's distinctive enough to be used to make a positive I.D. All we have to do is find which one of the four people on our list has that tattoo on his arm and we'll have our killer.”
“Wonderful!” Ringold said and clapped his hands. Then he looked confused again. “What if he's not on our list?”
“According to Dr. Howell, the man we want is likely to have a history of violent behavior. I've already contacted Al Foster at Central Station, and he's going to run our description through C.I.D. They'll cross-check their records and come up with a tidy list of felons who have this kind of tattoo on their forearms. There won't be a lot of them I guarantee you, because it's a distinctive design.”
“Spare me,” Ringold said.
He turned to go, whirled back around on his heels, cleared his throat, pinched the knot in his tie as if it were a tiny microphone, and said, “You've done a very good job.” He nodded to Kate and added, “Both of you.”
He walked briskly away, back to his office, leaving Kate staring after him with her mouth ajar.
“You'll catch flies,” I said to her.
She shook her head and said, “I just never expected to hear that.” She beamed at me. “Thanks. I'll pay you back sometime.”
“How ‘bout tonight?”
She pulled at her frilly white blouse and said, “How ‘bout right now?”
I grinned at her. “Woman, you keep surprising me.”
“You're still too hung up, Harry,” she said with grave authority. “You're not impetuous enough. You're not allowing your natural child to have a good time.”
I shook my head and she laughed.
“Tonight will be fine,” Kate Davis said.
******
We went through the list name by name, Kate, Miss Moselle and I. Sitting about the little desk behind the circulation counter. With Miss Moselle's box of index cards at her side, the application forms didn't really tell us much more than names, addresses, and birthdates. But Miss Moselle had “a little something,” as she put it, on most of the library's patrons. Who took what from where. Who was habitually late returning books. Who was belligerent with the librarians. Who was rowdy in the stacks. What each one looked like and what the stars, the imperishable, whirling stars, told her about their characters.
“To begin with, no tattoos,” she said. “I would certainly remember a tattoo. Ugly things, they affect me like the smell of a cheap cigar left smoldering in an ashtray. I have a physical revulsion to them.”
“That isn't so good, Jess,” Kate said unhappily.
“On the other hand,” Miss Moselle said. “I cannot be certain that I have seen the forearms of each of these boys. I try not to look at the forearms of young men. I have a slightly different reaction to them. But no less marked.”
Kate and I laughed.
Jessie Moselle blushed bright red and Kate patted her gently on the hand.
“I have the same reaction,” she said.
Miss Moselle drew herself up in the chair. “Shall we take these names alphabetically?” she said with great dignity.
I nodded.
“Then we shall begin with Gerald Arnold. A fine old English name, Arnold. He is a Scorpio, which makes him mercurial,” she said, glancing at me. “He is, as I recall, of medium height. Quite slender. With very long blonde hair and rather a ragged beard. He often wore peace emblems and religious symbols on his clothes and about his neck.”
“A born-again hippie?” I said.
“Oh, I wouldn't know about that,” she said, as if being a Jesus-freak to Miss Moselle were equivalent to membership in some secret society, like the Masons. “He did dress in denim clothing and was often in need of a bath. But I don't think labels like ‘hippie’ are of much use, do you? Some of
my favorite patrons have long hair. Indeed, it wasn't until the last century that short hair became fashionable. It was a Prussian fad, you know. Odious people, the Prussians. I'm sure they thought short hair would be more convenient in warfare.”
“And the next one?” I asked. “Haskell Lord?”
“A Capricorn. Which is a very perplexing sign. Half-goat and half-fish, you see. One part pointing downward and the other pointing up. This could be one worth looking into, I think, depending on what house he was born into. Besides, I remember him as being a very disagreeable young man. Dark-haired, swarthy, muscular. With rather a rude manner. I must admit that I haven't seen him about in many months. But he could be sulking. He failed to return his last withdrawal of books and we had to threaten to revoke his card in order to get them back. I believe his brother or his mother finally brought them in.”
“And Isaac Mill?”
“A Cancer. A moon sign. He could easily be as mad as a hatter. Which is a peculiar phrase. It comes from the fact, I believe, that hatters used fulminate of mercury to work their felts and the vapors often made them giddy and contentious. Rather like our modern glue-sniffers. I may be being a bit hard on Mr. Mill, as he was a very quiet fellow. Very neat and well-groomed and polite. But he had a little toothbrush moustache, like Hitler's. And I'm afraid it made me hate him. Oddly enough, we had to threaten him with a final notice, too. He claimed he'd been out of town and hadn't received our first and second notices. I tend to believe it, but I may be leaning too far toward charity since I secretly despised him.”
“And finally Lester Towne.”
“A Sagittarian,” she said with delight. “Sign of philosophers and poets. Although we can be rather impractical, as well. Lester, I'm afraid, is a bit on the impractical side. Quite odd, really, and terribly forgetful. He left his umbrella in the periodical reading room no less than three times last year. And he doesn't seem to be able to hold onto anything else. His mother, who comes here often, tells me that he's lost his job, too.”
“Which was?” I said.
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